


You Are Mine

by redreaper86



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Postitivity, F/M, Pierre is a sweet cinnamon roll, Possessive Natasha is possessive, Post-Canon, Size Difference, Tickling, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, tickling kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreaper86/pseuds/redreaper86
Summary: Natasha is very possessive of Pierre and has no qualms about teaching him exactly who he belongs to.
Relationships: Pyotr "Pierre" Kirillovich Bezukhov/Natalya "Natasha" Ilyinichna Rostova
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	You Are Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I've got no excuses, except Paul Dano is adorable and Lily James is gorgeous and I love them both <3

The party at Anna Pavlovna’s had gone quite well. At least that was what Pierre thought -- he’d only gotten into two political disputes and even so, those had ended agreeably. Natasha had been her social, charming, beautiful self throughout the gala. But clearly from his wife’s cold silence in the carriage ride home, he’d done something wrong…misstepped somehow. When the fifth attempt to start a conversation with her failed, Pierre fell silent, miserably wondering what he did wrong.

When they finally arrived home, Pierre was fully prepared to sleep on the couch. He went straight to his study planning to have a drink or ten. So, it came as a total shock to him when he was pounced upon and smothered in kisses by none other than Natasha.

If Pierre had been a smaller man or Natasha a bigger woman, both of them would have toppled over backwards onto the china-blue silk sofa by the bookcases. As it was, Natasha slammed into the solid, soft bulk of Pierre, snaked her arms around his thick waist, stood on her very tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. When their mouths finally broke apart, Pierre was perplexed -- to say the least.

His wife burst out laughing at the stunned look on his face.

“I -- I don’t understand, Natasha,” Pierre began, prompting more merriment from the addressed, “I thought you were angry with me.”

“I am!” Natasha cried through tears of mirth. “You’ve been very naughty, Pierre.”

“What have I done?” Pierre asked and the horrified dismay on his face sent Natasha into stitches again.

“Absolutely nothing! That’s what you’ve done, Pierre. That’s the problem. You’re too _good_ , you great big darling.” She smoothed down the front of his waistcoat almost wistfully.

Pierre understood then. “You _wanted_ me to mess up,” he said, a befuddled little smile. 

His wife peered up at him through her eyelashes, silently communicating that that was exactly what she wanted. “I like to remind you you’re mine.” She hugged him tight about the middle. “All mine.”

“You still can do that,” Pierre said, his jade-coloured eyes very wide and childlike. “You don’t have to wait for me to make a mistake.”

“True…” Natasha mused, toying with one of the buttons on his waistcoat. “Now that I recall, Svetlana Stafanova was glancing at you too often for my comfort.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Hm, well, she was undressing you with her eyes.”

Pierre blushed, looking horrified. 

Natasha bit her lip to keep from laughing again. God, her husband was adorable.

“You are too sexy for your own good,” Natasha said, playfully reproachful. “You need to be reminded of who exactly you belong to.”

“I belong to you, my dear Natasha,” Pierre said, his fervour deepening his voice. “I always have.”

“Yes, you do, husband,” Natasha cooed, sliding her hands up underneath his waistcoat. “You are _mine_.” Without warning, she scrunched her fingers into his stomach, the ensuing sensation prompting Pierre to squeak, stumble backwards and tumble both himself and his wife onto the sofa by the bookcases. 

“ _Natasha_ \--” Pierre gasped, squirming as well as he was able, wedged as he was on the dainty futon which was creaking dangerously under their (mostly Pierre’s) weight.

“‘Natasha,’ what?” his beloved tormenter mocked. “‘Natasha, tickle me more?’”

“Nat --” Pierre tried, only to be choked by his own involuntary laughter.

“‘ _Da?’ Da_!” Natasha’s powerful fingers delved into Pierre’s meaty flanks and wriggled mercilessly there.

Robbed entirely of his vocal capacity, Pierre could do nothing but thrash his big body until the tiny sofa positively groaned with the strain.

“Careful, _Petrushka_ ,” Natasha teased, her fingers dancing on his ribs as a pianist’s does on the keys of their instrument, “or I shall be forced to tie you down…”

\-- Pierre let out the most adorable squeak of anticipation --

“…and then you won’t be able to do anything but squirm and squeal as I tickle you and tickle you…”

So saying, she scuttled her fingertips up to chest, lightly scratching her nails there, lessening the tickling somewhat so Pierre could catch his breath. He gasped in lungfuls of precious oxygen before his wicked wife commenced torturing him again. Pierre reached above his head, gripping the arm of the sofa with both hands, so as to keep himself from flailing and accidentally hurting Natasha. It was his very solicitousness for his wife’s welfare that was to be Pierre’s weakness. By keeping his arms above his head, Pierre completely exposed his entire torso to his wife’s playful mischief.

Natasha’s dark eyes glittered appreciatively at this verbal form of surrender.

“Ohh, Pierre,” she purred, deftly unbuttoning his waistcoat, flinging the ends of the garment aside before pushing up his shirt. “You always were too generous with me, darling.” She gently raked her nails over his soft belly, setting it to quivering.

“Plea-hease, Nat-ha-asha --!” Pierre’s voice caught in his throat and he found it hard to speak. 

“Poor little Pierre,” Natasha teased him, still gently scouring his heavy gut with her fingernails despite his efforts to suck it in. “You fought in the war but you are undone by such a silly weakness! It’s a good thing the French never found out how ticklish you are. Otherwise, you know what they would have done?” 

Pierre shook his head vehemently in the negative not because he did not know but because he knew all too well what was coming next.

Natasha tilted her lovely head. “They would have done this!” She squeezed his well-padded hips to a bellow of mirth that shook the windows of the study and a flail of his great body that did the frail couch in finally, sliding both husband and wife, the latter still astride the former, to the floor. The collapse caused Natasha to release a little scream of surprise before dissolving into laughter.

“ _Merde alores, mon petite cher_!” she exclaimed in an exaggerated French accent that tickled Pierre even more than her own skillful fingers had done. Shaking with silent laughter, he tried to cover his face with his hands but Natasha seized each of his stout wrists in both of her dainty hands and pinned them by his head. Thus exposed, he could do naught but turn his brilliantly glowing red face away from her, exposing his ear in the process which Natasha didn’t hesitate to put her lips to, whispering: “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this to you, dear Pierre, my beautiful husband?”

Since he couldn’t yet breathe all he did was shake his head a little, his face still turned away from her.

“Ever since that first dance with you,” she murmured. “When I was fifteen and you twenty, remember?”

“Yes,” Pierre gasped, finally catching his breath. 

“You were so cute and shy,” Natasha cooed, tracing his jaw. “You didn’t want to dance at first.”

“I was worried I would be too clumsy -- step on your toes,” Pierre murmured, still panting. “It was only your natural grace, my dear Natasha, that kept me from botching it completely.”

“That was the first time I got to touch you,” Natasha went on, smiling at the memory. “I ran my hands over your shoulders, down your chest to your stomach…” As she spoke, her hands roved over him in exactly the same manner as they had fifteen years ago, only back then there had been a thick waistcoat between her palms and his flesh. “But I had to pull away before I really did something disgraceful. And I remember wishing, even back then, that you were mine so that I could touch you always.” 

“You did?” Pierre’s breath hitched at his wife’s memory and tears sparked his eyes. “I…I remember being so embarrassed when you did that.” 

“Why would you be embarrassed, _Petrushka_?”

Pierre shrugged. “Because you were -- still are -- so beautiful and light and full of life and I was -- and am even more so now -- awkward, bulky…fat.”

“Don’t say that, Pierre,” Natasha brought up her hand to cup his face. “I love that you’re so big, strong -- solid. My Russian bear. And I wouldn’t trade you in for a hundred Andreis or a thousand Anatoles.”

Pierre peered up at her through his eyelashes which were even longer than her own. “What about a thousand Andreis?” If Natasha wasn’t already hopelessly smitten with her new husband, this coquettish yet vulnerable glace would have caused her to fall for him again, hook, line and sinker.

“Not for a million, billion, trillion…” Natasha gestured, trying to think of a number higher than a trillion. “Gazillion…” 

“Quadrillion,” Pierre corrected her teasingly. 

“Not for the world then,” Natasha cried, quite serious. “Not for the universe! I will never give you up, Pierre. Not for anyone, not to anyone. Because --”

“Because I am yours?” Pierre interrupted her.

Natasha grinned then; wickedly, beautifully. “ _Da_.”


End file.
